


Press Conference

by taylor_tut



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Tony Stark, Protective Avengers, Protective Bruce Banner, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Thor (Marvel), Sick Character, Sick Tony, Sick Tony Stark, Sickfic, Tony Stark Whump, Whump, injured Tony Stark, internal bleeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 07:04:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15504966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: Tony takes a hit harder than he thinks, and doesn’t know it until he’s bleeding internally at a press conference.





	Press Conference

Fury was making them answer questions in front of the public. 

It made sense, of course, after a scuffle with a baddie had ended with Tony being thrown hard enough to knock the world off Atlas’ back in Rockefeller Center. People were angry, but it didn’t make the whole process any less shitty.

Especially because that little press conference was only an hour after the battle had ended, and they were all cranky.

“This sucks,” Tony complained. He was sore and tired and ready to go home.

Clint rolled his eyes. “You’re the one that broke the world,” he taunted. Tony groaned, pressing a thumb to his eye, and it didn’t escape Natasha’s notice.

“Oh, leave him alone, Clint,” she shut him down, “Stark can’t help where he gets tossed. You’ve broken worse.” 

“Atlas is way worse than Bethesda Fountain!” Clint argued, but quieted down when Tony flinched. He frowned. “Are you sure you don’t need to stop into medical?” he asked. 

Natasha nodded. “At the very least, it’ll get you out of this crap,” she tried to encourage, but Steve’s super-spangled hearing made him whip around to face them.

“No one is using medical to get out of this,” he said authoritatively, but a quick scan of Tony made his eyebrows furrow. “But if you need to go—”

Tony shook his head and waved away the concern with one hand. “I just want to get this over with,” he brushed them off. “Can we just get this over with?”

Clint looked like he wanted to argue, but Steve clapped a hand to his shoulder to stop him. “Alright,” he conceded. “I’ll talk quickly and only take a few questions.”

Clint grinned. “Just enough to get Fury out of your ass?”

Steve cringed at the wording, but nodded nonetheless. “Exactly that much,” he agreed. 

Bruce and Thor were already helping to assemble the black curtain so that people could easier take pictures (despite that the lack of curtain did not seem to be stopping the already-swarming press), and when they gave the thumbs up, Steve took the podium and the rest of the Avengers filed behind him.

As Tony took the one step up to the platform, he swayed backward, and Natasha caught him by the elbow.

“Sorry,” he apologized before she could even ask a question, “just lost my footing.” She turned to Clint uncertainty, but he could only shrug. Maybe he was just tired.

Steve could filibuster forever, Clint thought. If this was the short version, what had he cut out? He’d already been talking for well over fifteen minutes when Natasha on his right nudged him, and he knew her well enough to know that meant to look to the right just in time to steady Tony as he swayed and support him as his knees buckled. The general gasp from the public alerted Steve that something was happening behind him, and he turned around.

“Can we get him a seat?” Natasha asked to the city officials who swarmed in from the wings, and one was rushed up to the stage with a folding chair. “It’s been a long day, and we’re all very tired.”

Clint sat Tony down and distrusted that he didn’t seem embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Steve had stepped away from the podium to help sit Tony down and check him over.

“You okay?” he asked, and Tony made a concerning noncommittal gesture before nodding. 

“Tired?” he said, but it sounded like a question. 

“Are you sure?” Steve asked. “You’re… very pale.” What had just been slight dark circles from weariness under his eyes after the battle now looked like dark bruises against an almost ghostly appearance. Tony was sweating again despite the day not being overly warm and that the sun hung low in the sky. However, against Steve’s instincts, Tony nodded and gestured for him to continue speaking, so he turned back to the audience with a small, sheepish smile. 

“We apologize,” he began, “for the inconvenience. We’ve been through an exhausting battle, and some of us are human.” The audience laughed lightly, snapping pictures of Tony despite his efforts to move on. 

As Steve took questions, giving easy, pleasant answers to concerns about public safety and minimizing collateral damage during battles, Clint didn’t take his eyes off Tony. Bruce had switched places with Thor to stand at the side of Tony’s chair, knowing that if Tony would alert anyone that he needed help, that Bruce would be their best bet. Tony sat forward with his elbow on his knee and his chin on his palm, resting with his eyes closed. It wasn’t unusual for him to tune out while Steve was talking, but he was all about keeping up appearances, and now he was looking paler by the minute. 

Before Clint could even suggest that they take a break, Tony was standing up shakily, his knees giving out as he scrambled off the stage. 

“Stark?” Thor asked, catching Tony under the arms as he made it only as far as the edge of the stage before he was collapsing. Tony was still frantically trying to get off the stage, one hand over his mouth and the other on his stomach, so Thor took the majority of his weight just as Tony’s stomach threw in the towel and he began to heave on the stage. 

He hadn’t eaten much that day—half a parmesan hero and a few cups of coffee—but what he threw up looked like coffee grounds. Thor continued to hold Tony up as he emptied his stomach while Clint, Steve, and Natasha hurried to end the meeting and send the paparazzi away. Thor shifted so that his massive back shielded Tony from having pictures snapped of him, though the damage was likely done, and what was more alarming was that Tony really didn’t seem to care, even once the heaving stopped and he had a moment to breathe. 

Bruce’s eyes widened when he saw the black on the stairs. “He’s throwing up blood,” he said urgently. “He’s bleeding internally.” 

Clint had migrated back toward them—Natasha was much better at threatening the press into leaving, anyway—and was already dialing SHIELD medical, speed dial 3 right after his wife and his favorite Chinese takeout restaurant. Priorities. 

“Damn it, I knew he was hit harder than he let on,” he muttered, then turned to summon the ambulance. Tony listed to the side, but with intent—he wanted to sit, so Thor sat him up so his back rested against the podium. 

“I thought I got lucky,” Tony admitted, flashing a watery smile to Bruce, “since all my blood stayed inside me this time.” 

Bruce sighed through his nose and pat Tony’s hand comfortingly. “So close,” he congratulated, “but no cigar.” Tony exhaled a breathy laugh.

“That’s a lot of blood,” Natasha’s voice noted from behind them. A statement, an observation, but undercut by a thin, chrome line of worry that could only be detected by someone who knew her down to the microexpression. Clint set a hand on her shoulder. 

“SHIELD is sending an ambulance,” he announced, “so we’ve just gotta keep him awake for five more minutes.”

That mission was over before it started.

 

Tony woke up with oxygen under his nose. A good sign, he thought. If he were really in bad shape, he’d have a mask, or worse, a respirator.  

“Good morning, sunshine,” Clint greeted quietly. 

Tony grimaced at the cheery attitude, one hand massaging his temple. “You’re gonna need to dial in the chipperness by about 15%,” he said. A quick glance around the room showed him that the rest of the group was there, too, but sleeping.

“You can’t just adjust my personality; I’m not JARVIS,” Clint argued. 

Tony laughed quietly. “If you think I have any control over JARVIS’ personality at this point, you haven’t been paying attention.” Clint handed over a green Jello that he’d stolen with the assumption that Tony would probably be asleep for a few more hours, and Tony opened it up and took small bites. 

“So, how are you feeling?” Clint asked. “Remember anything?”

Another grimace. “Unfortunately, I remember puking at the press conference,” he said. “Any chance I’ve been out long enough for those tabloids to already be old news?”

Clint shook his head, wincing when Tony groaned. “Sorry; the gifs are trending,” he admitted. 

“Oh, God, there’s gifs?” Tony asked. “Who would want to see that on loop?”

Clint shrugged. “Corners of the internet for everything, I guess,” he said noncommittally. “And you never answered. How do you feel?”

“Better than at the conference,” Tony replied, which wasn’t a REAL answer, but was likely as close as Clint would get.

“Yeah, they patched you up and gave you the good drugs, so I’m sure,” he explained. Tony’s eyes fluttered, but he forced them open to see Clint turning back to his comic book. “It’s still late,” he whispered, “so you might as well get some sleep.”

Tony nodded. “You should, too,” he asserted, and Clint pretended to agree, knowing fully well he’d likely be up for a few more hours. He fucking hated hospitals. 

“I will,” he promised hollowly. “Goodnight, Tin Can.” 

“Night, Katniss,” Tony muttered before letting sleep take him under. 


End file.
